


an indelible line was drawn

by insunshine



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Adults Having Conversations, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 19:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17371757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: “If you sigh again, I’m throwing my laptop at your face,” Tommy says around 2:30.





	an indelible line was drawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gdgdbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/gifts).



> After that very suggestive Parachute ad on Monday’s pod, somebody had to write the story of the Jons secretly boning, and I decided it would be me, especially if I could make it into a surprise for my favorite Lucy. I hope you dig this, friend! I had a blast writing it.

They’ve walked roughly six steps out of the recording studio when Lovett says loudly, “Jon and I have to pee.”

Jon’s in that post-recording discombobulation phase, trying to make sure he’s not going to drop his notepad or his four pens, or his phone _and_ his iPad.

“What,” he says, but Lovett’s shoving him back toward the gender neutral bathrooms on the other end of the floor. “Lovett, let me just,” he mumbles, dropping his stuff on one of the overstuffed armchairs they have in the open concept lobby area.

“Oh-kay,” Tommy says, from behind them. “I’ll just make sure our employees don’t rob you blind, I guess.”

In the bathroom, Lovett doesn’t stop moving until they’re crammed into the full coverage handicapped stall in the corner.

“What the fuck, Lovett,” Jon says.

Lovett’s color is high, and he’s sweating a little, the way he always does after they finish a solid hour of recording. 

There’s a muscle working in his jaw, and Jon wants to put his mouth on it, but he’s also not sure if that would be allowed right now. They haven’t exactly sketched out the parameters of this thing they’re doing.

“What are you _doing_?” Lovett asks, shoving at Jon’s chest. 

He can’t move that far within the confined space, but he does take a step back. Lovett gesticulates a lot, but he’s stronger than he looks. Jon doesn’t relish getting hit again.

“What are you talking about?” Jon asks, trying to pick up the thread of this ambush. “What did I do? You’re the one who dragged me in here, dude.”

Lovett rolls his eyes, then through gritted teeth, says, “You were flirting with me in that ad, _dude_.”

Jon’s first instinct is to deny it, but Lovett isn’t exactly wrong.

“I thought we talked about this,” Lovett is still speaking as Jon tunes back in. “We’re not telling people right now, not because we’re ashamed, but because this is not TMZ, and what if two famous people were just having sex after an awards show, and not, I don’t know. Pledging their troth and buying a house in the Hills.”

So far, since drunkenly rubbing off against each other like teenagers over the Thanksgiving break, Jon has seen Lovett naked sixteen times. He’s sucked bruises against the back of his knees, left a constellation of teeth marks against his neck, and chin and hips. They’ve gone to dinner and Jon has paid. Lovett has fucked him, and one time, Jon came untouched against the mattress, thereby shattering every illusion he’s ever held about himself and his sexual preferences.

“For the record,” Jon says, instead of doing something ridiculous like asking Lovett to move in when his lease is up, or maybe, fuck. Maybe pledging his troth and moving to the Hills. “I didn’t mean to flirt with you, but if that’s the case, I was also flirting with Tommy.”

“Tommy,” Lovett says icily, “is married.”

Under his breath, Jon mutters, “Like that’s ever stopped you before.” 

“I can hear you,” Lovett says, as if that’s surprising. They’re separated by less than two feet.

“Are you really mad?” Jon asks. He kind of wants to look down at his watch and check the time, but that’s probably rude, and he also doesn’t want to get yelled at again, so instead he leans back against the far wall, hands in his pockets. “I respect your boundaries, man. I didn’t intend to do it, but I can make an effort not to do it again.”

It seems like a pretty fair compromise to him, and besides, for all that Jon wanted to dive into this headfirst, Lovett is right. Not telling people, especially their employees, especially Tommy, and Jon’s parents, and Andy… if it works out, probably everyone will be thrilled. If it doesn’t, Jon doesn’t relish thinking about the people who rely on him having to pick a side.

“Fine,” Lovett says. “Okay. Thank you for ceding the floor. It wasn’t that funny a joke anyway.”

“Not really my job,” Jon says, self-deprecating, just to see if it makes Lovett smile.

The trick works, Lovett turning his head to hide it. “I’m annoyed at you. Stop being cute. Stop _smiling_.”

There’s a low heat in Jon’s belly, that same clinging awareness that always creeps up on him when he and Lovett are alone and in close proximity.

“Stop smiling?” Jon asks. “You think I’m cute. I would say that’s something to smile about.”

“You know you’re cute,” Lovett says, and without warning, he darts close, tipping up on his toes and pressing a kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. “This is a stupid idea,” he mumbles, but he doesn’t move away, and the last thing Jon would ever do is make him. 

They’ve never done this, never snuck away to make out in the bathroom at work before, and Jon likes it so much his hands are tingling as he slides them under the hem of Lovett’s shirt. He doesn’t get to touch long, because Lovett pulls back on a groan.

“Bad, bad idea,” he says. “Is this the first time you’ve ever been a bad influence?”

“Yeah, probably,” Jon agrees, following Lovett out of the stall. Lovett makes a big production of flushing one of the other toilets and then washing his hands twice. 

“Do you think I should pee? Really make an authentic go of it?”

“I think you’re fine,” Jon says, “but you know they’re probably going to have more questions now than if you’d just dropped it.” 

Lovett waves him off. “Whatever. I can deal with it. I am a very good actor,” he says, pushing out of the bathroom.

He’s not wrong about that either. 

Before Tanya has even popped out both of her earbuds, he’s complaining to her about how he vomited, how Jon held his hair back, how that breakfast burrito from the sketchier of the three food trucks down the street really did not sit well with him this morning. He still looks a little sweaty, looks a little like he wants to cross his arm protectively over his stomach, but is valiantly trying not to call attention to it.

“Oh, yikes,” she says. “Do you think it was the eggs? Salmonella poisoning is real, Jon.”

Jon watches as Lovett’s eyelashes flutter behind his glasses, watches as somehow, he goes a little paler before saying, “Maybe I should work from home for the rest of the day.”

“Yo, maybe you should work from home for the rest of your life,” Michael says, coming out of the recording booth holding two burritos from that same truck. “I got breakfast with you! Don’t ruin this for me. It’s a cheat day.”

“If you’re Tommy,” Lovett says a little weakly, mopping at his brow beneath his faded pink ball cap. “Every day is a cheat day in 2019.”

“Very funny, Lovett,” Tommy’s disembodied voice yells out from the open door of their office. “You know that’s not what I said.”

“Eat More Trans Fats! The Vietor slogan for 2019,” Lovett quips. Then, as Jon and the rest of the office watch, he curls in on himself, bending so far forward that his head nearly touches Tanya’s desk.

He’s a genius, and Jon is fucked. He’s _so_ fucked.

“Want me to run you home?” he asks, aiming for casual and missing. “You probably shouldn’t put your life, or the life of your dog at risk if you’re in this much distress.”

When Lovett looks over, he looks both grateful and suspicious, but Jon can’t tell which emotion is the real one, and which is part of this Oscar-caliber performance. 

“It’s the middle of the day, Jon,” Lovett says, eyes flashing. “Who am I to take you away from your important work?” 

Jon’s only seen bits and pieces of The Office. He tried to watch faithfully when Rashida was on, but it would often get lost in the shuffle of late nights in the White House and TiVo auto-deletions. Still, in this moment, he wishes he had a camera to throw to. 

“Can I at least call you a Lyft?” Jon asks finally. As much as the idea of playing hookie with Lovett appeals, he has a mountain of work to get through. Technically, he could do it at home, or at Lovett’s home, but down that route lies distraction and madness.

“I guess,” Lovett says. “If I puke in the back of somebody’s car, you’re paying for it to get reupholstered, though.”

“It’s not like _I_ bought you those burritos,” Jon hears himself argue, ridiculous, considering Lovett isn’t even really sick. 

Lovett turns to him and beams, like all he’d wanted was that snap, that proof that Jon’s attention is always where it should be.

“Here’s what I want to know,” Erin says, coming out of the kitchen holding a mug of tea and a box of salad. They’re recording some Hysteria ads later on, because she’s leaving for Chile in a couple days. “Would you give him a kickback if you ralphed in his car? How does money exchange hands? I’m honestly asking.”

“Undefinable,” Jon mutters, just as Lovett pitches himself forward again, and Pundit barks her distress.

;;

It’s not the most productive afternoon Jon’s ever had. He sits at his desk across from Tommy, and he dicks around on WaPo, and he sketches out a potential outline for Thursday’s pod with Dan. There are dates and venues for padding out the tour that he has to approve too, but every time he looks away from his screen, he forgets nearly every detail. 

“If you sigh again, I’m throwing my laptop at your face,” Tommy says around 2:30.

Jon’s kept one eye on the clock for most of the afternoon, which is in turns horrifyingly unprofessional and fairly on brand. Jon knows he’s the one who keeps them all on pace, but being responsible is only fun when there’s someone to bounce off against. He has to stop himself from sighing again.

“If you throw your computer at me, I’ll probably be concussed, so I definitely won’t be paying for a new one. There are limits to how far my generosity stretches, Tom.”

Tommy snorts something under his breath, and then stretches in his rolly chair, dragging his arms high above his head. 

“What’s that?” Jon asks, but he can feel his ears flushing scarlet, the cause of which he doesn’t particularly care to investigate.

“How’s the tour stuff going?” Tommy asks instead. “You want me to look at it? Maybe take something off your plate?” 

Considering Jon’s first instinct is to lash out, he takes a breath, then a deep swallow from his glass of water. “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks. Sorry I’m such a drip today. The whole Lovett thing is kinda stressing me out. We’ve gotta get him a bubble or something, right? First his leg, then that flu...”

“Or we could just keep making fun of him for being such a human disaster,” Tommy says, a laugh in his voice. “That’s pretty fun for me. I mean, how many times do you gotta hear ‘don’t put your hand on the stove’ before you just get it? That food truck is a rolling health hazard.” 

“Yeah,” Jon agrees, and they go back to work for a while. “Hey,” he says, a full two minutes later, eyeing Tommy cautiously. “Have you ever, like. Do you remember when I turned thirty and my dad was like, ‘do you know that I was married and settled down by your age’?” Tommy hums to let Jon know he’s listening. “And I was like — like fucking Leo McGarry, right?” 

“’This is the most important work I’ll ever do’,” Tommy quotes, typing something on his keyboard and looking over. “I don’t remember that specific conversation, but yes, I do remember that you were too neurotic to settle down for a while.”

Jon laughs despite himself and points between them. “Pot. Kettle,” he says.

“Hey, man,” Tommy argues, arms behind his head now. “I’m married. I locked that shit down. I have set hours, and I don’t check my blackberry at 3 in the morning, and I don’t have to lie to the press about NatSec garbage that gave me ulcers. Gives me ulcers? I lost the clause in there somewhere.”

“Gave, I think,” Jon says. “Um. Do you think it’s weird? That I haven’t settled down? You have Hanna. Shomik has Alex. Andy has Molly. I’m just, uh. Floating along. 37. Still unattached.”

“Do you want me to,” Tommy says, tugging his iPhone out of the pocket of his shorts and waving it around. “Hanna probably has friends? I mean, you and me, we know the same people, but she’s a fucking rockstar. She could probably set you up. Hey, actually, I think an old DC roommate of hers is in town this week. Maybe next. We could all do dinner?”

Maybe Jon should say yes. Instead, he clears his throat awkwardly and says, “Nah, I’m kind of in it with somebody? Somebody I really like. So. Thank you, but I’m good.”

A little while later, Tommy’s phone rings. Jon is in the middle of a New Yorker article about fungus from over the summer. It doesn’t have anything to do with his job, but he’s managing to follow the narrative structure of the piece without losing time, or thinking about texting Lovett, so he’s counting it as a win.

“Hey,” Tommy says. “It’s Hanna. You want me to step out?”

Jon shrugs. It’s almost four. “Nah, I can. I’m going to obsess over Lovett getting gangrene or something unless I go check on him, so I’m probably going to head out soon.”

“Baby, can I call you right back?” Tommy says into his phone as Jon tugs on his fleece and hunts fruitlessly for his keys. “I’m leaving in like, twenty minutes, yeah, I just gotta talk Favs off this ledge first.”

It’s mortifying that Jon can feel his whole body flushing, and that Tommy can probably tell, in the close proximity of their office. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says into the phone. “I will. Love you too. I’ll tell him.” When Jon doesn’t immediately look over, Tommy laughs and says, low-voiced, “Okay, please take this in the manner it was intended, and don’t, like. Whatever. I know you know a person can’t get gangrene from food poisoning.” 

“What?” Jon says. He’s so surprised about the topic change that he can’t help but looking over. 

“Lovett ate a bad burrito, right? That’s not how you — never mind. Listen. Your private business is your private business, but if the reason you haven’t locked it down with whoever you’re seeing now is because you’ve still got a crush on Lovett, I don’t know, Jon. Sometimes you’ve just gotta make yourself decide. It’s a visualization technique. I will not obsess. I will not obsess. That kind of thing.”

Several things happen at once, but thankfully Jon exploding from shock isn’t one of them. His own phone buzzes, an incoming call from Lovett, Mukta pokes her head in the door, and Leo sits up from between Jon’s feet, barking belatedly, like he heard it when his name was mentioned, but couldn’t wake up fast enough.

“Uh,” Jon says, holding up a hand for both Tommy and Mukta to wait so he can answer his phone. “Lovett? What’s up? Are you okay?”

Thank god he keeps the volume on his phone low, because Lovett says, “I’m bored. I’m hungry and I’m bored and I regret not letting you drive me home, because I could have had at least two orgasms by now. A blowjob, even! God. My kingdom for a blowjob, Favs.”

“Mukta’s in the office with me and Tommy right now, but I’m leaving soon, and I’ll bring one of those right over.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon can see Tommy and Mukta staring at him. 

“Lovett, I’ll get the burgers delivered to your house instead of mine, okay? Bye.” He hangs up and pockets his phone, then takes a second to stare blankly at his desk before facing them again. Instead of the knowing glances and smirks he’s expecting, Tommy is idly texting and Mukta mostly looks concerned.

“Are we sure dairy would be smart right now if he’s been puking all morning?” she asks, like she can’t even see the Lovett-shaped elephant in the room. 

“All morning?” Tommy says. “As far as I know, it was just the once, right Jon?”

“Ohhh, okay,” she says. “Sorry, I was at a dentist appointment until just now, so I’m still catching up on all the daily gossip. Did I miss anything else?”

“Nah, not really,” Tommy says, and then, “Oh wait! Jon tried to pick me up during one of the ad reads, so that was new and fun.”

Mukta throws her head back and laughs, “Jon did? This Jon? Woah.”

“I’m trying out all sorts of new stuff in 2019. Watch out, world,” he deadpans. He has to say something.

Mukta laughs again, and Tommy does too, the both of them grinning at him broadly, until Mukta says, “Okay, nerds. I’m going out there to start on the edit. Holler if you need me.”

“Jon and I are both probably heading out within the next five minutes,” Tommy says easily. “Feel free to take off when you need to. Spread it around. You know.”

“Sounds good,” Mukta says, high-fiving him. “Thanks, boss.”

As soon as Mukta’s shut the door, Jon blurts, “You think I have a crush on Lovett?”

Tommy blinks at him, startled, and says, “Do you...not think you have a crush on Lovett?” 

It’s so absurd that Jon starts laughing, slumping back down in his seat and pressing his forehead to the cool glass of his iPad screen. He’s startled when he feels Tommy’s hand on his shoulder, but mostly it feels nice. Grounding.

“Maybe crush is kind of extreme,” Tommy agrees, propping himself against the corner of Jon’s desk. “How about a, uh, preoccupation? It’s okay, man. We all have friendships like that sometimes. He’ll get it if you need to, like. Take a step back and hang out with your new person. Focus on them more.”

It’s the lack of pronouns that Jon catches first. The rest of Tommy’s words filter in slowly, but the lack of pronouns seems pronounced, in the most casual, laid-back, Tommy-way possible.

“I didn’t mean not to tell you,” Jon says softly, and it’s the truth. 

“I know, Favs,” Tommy says. “I know how it goes. Everybody’s got shit. Just remember that you have friends that want to listen when you’re ready to talk about it.”

Jon picks up his head, and makes quick work of unplugging all of his devices. His keys have mysteriously reappeared underneath his piles of paperwork.

“You wanna drop by after you finish up at Lovett’s, burger boy?” Tommy asks, shouldering his messenger bag as they wave to the team and walk out of the office. “I think Han and I are starting Sharp Objects after dinner.”

“That Amy Adams show about the kid-murder?” Jon asks. “Pass.”

In the elevator downstairs, Tommy says, “But you love Amy Adams! Well, I don’t actually know if this is true, but who doesn’t love Amy Adams, except for the governing bodies that select awards?”

“Care a lot about awards now?” Jon asks, pulling up the PostMates on his phone as they walk and ordering two burgers and two orders of fries to be delivered to Lovett’s house.

“Hanna does,” Tommy says. He doesn’t actually make a move like he’s going to look at Jon’s phone screen, but he is leering. “Relationships are all about give and take. Take it from an old married guy. Sometimes she listens to foreign policy lectures for me, and in return I pretend not to get queasy when she talks about Ted Bundy.”

The sunset is streaming yellow and purple across the sky, and even after this long in Los Angeles, the overwhelming beauty still catches him off guard sometimes. It reminds him of Lovett, the way everything wild and unfathomable always does. 

“Earth to Jon,” Tommy says, knocking their arms together as they make their way to their cars. “Where’d you go, man?”

“There’s some stuff I can’t talk to you about yet,” Jon says, scooping Leo up so he can buckle him into the passenger seat. “But when I figure it out, you’re first on my list, okay?”

Tommy rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, reaching out and fluffing Jon’s hair. “Yeah, yeah, you loser. Go lock it down. Seriously, though, come by and save me from the kid murder, please. Hanna knows what a scaredy-cat you are. She would never inflict that on an unsuspecting stranger.”

“Not a stranger,” Jon argues, sliding into the car and pulling down his shades. “That’s how I know how full of shit you are. She would absolutely make me watch along.”

;;

There wasn’t much to recommend the old office but proximity, but right now, Jon thinks of it fondly — even the mice — as he sits in traffic, trying to cross town to get home. He has the phone hooked up to the car’s Bluetooth, listening to David Greene on Morning Edition through the NPR one app. His voice is soothing, even if the news is decidedly not, and Jon’s pulling into his driveway a little over a half an hour after he’d left the office.

Jon could go into the house, take a shower, put out some food and water for the dog, but instead, he scoops Leo up again, tugs his keys out of the ignition and heads across the street, leaving the rest of his shit in the car.

Lovett answers after the third knock with, “Alright, alright, hold on.” 

He’s in ratty sweats and a sweatshirt that’s at least a size too big for him, Pundit winding around his feet, and he’s the best thing Jon has ever seen.

“Hi,” Lovett says. “Took you fucking long enough.”

Jon follows him into the house, clicking shut the door behind him and toeing off his sneakers. He sets down Leo, who follows Pundit into the living room like a magnet. 

“Yeah, sorry I couldn’t teleport. You know how hard I’ve been trying to develop that superpower.”

The TV is on, Frasier playing softly in the background as Lovett sprawls onto the couch. “Don’t talk about superpowers like you actually know what that means,” he says.

“I do,” Jon argues, not waiting for Lovett to invite him to sit before he does, close enough that he could take Lovett’s feet in his lap if he wanted to. “I’m waiting for that radioactive spider to bite me so I can turn into a bat, and then just fly over traffic.”

It’s cute, the way Lovett’s mouth falls open, shocked surprise leading into the best of his laughs, the ones where his whole body curls in on itself because he just can’t stay still. 

“That was actually a very funny joke, buddy, I’m proud,” Lovett says, patting Jon’s wrist condescendingly, but then leaving his hand there, bare skin against bare skin.

“I can tell jokes sometimes,” Jon says, letting himself slump back against the old, comfortable couch. He’s sat here hundreds of times since he moved to Los Angeles, making his own space in Lovett’s house, and never once wondering if he was welcome. “Hey, I have to tell you something,” he says eventually, twisting their hands so that their palms press together, fingers intertwined.

Lovett smirks at him, but he lets it happen, and that’s thrilling. “Okay,” he says, after a little while, laughing at something Kelsey Grammer does on screen. “What do you have to tell me?”

“Tommy thinks I have a crush on you,” Jon says, blurting it out in a single breath. Sometimes, the only way out is through.

“Tommy,” Lovett says, narrowing his eyes. He laughs again, but it’s less robust this time, quieter and a little mean. Still, he hasn’t tugged his hand away, and Jon takes it as a victory. “Well, that’s mortifying. What is this, seventh grade? Is he about to pass me a note that says: do you like Jon? Check yes or no? As if you would have even known I was alive in seventh grade.”

Jon takes a breath and wishes Leo weren’t snoozing with Pundit so that he’d have something to do with his hands, some way to divert his focus, and divert his attention from the frantic beating of his heart. “Lovett, focus up a second. Tommy thinks I have a crush on you, and that it’s impeding me from being with who I really want.”

“Okay,” Lovett says. He’s focused on the TV again, but he still hasn’t let go of Jon’s hand. “So who do you want to be with?”

After a lengthy bit of quiet, he does try and get his hand back, and Jon holds on, but only for a second. “Come on, man,” he says. “It’s you. You have to know that it’s you. Who the fuck were you expecting me to say, Amy Adams or something?”

Lovett moves forward, lightning fast, in Jon’s space quicker than he can blink. He’s a heavy, welcome weight in Jon’s lap, arms curled around his neck. “So let me get this straight. Tommy thinks you have a crush on me, and I’m so irresistible, so overwhelming that you can’t spend enough time with your new… paramour? Girlfriend? What is the right term for a female companion these days?”

Jon tips his head back, laughing hard, because he can’t help it. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he says. “Tommy made sure he used pretty neutral pronouns.”

“Bisexual icon, Tommy Vietor,” Lovett grouses, rolling his eyes. “Always trying to one-up us with his understanding nature.”

“That’s the one,” Jon agrees, letting his hands settle on easily on Lovett’s hips. “Are you,” he says after a minute, the two of them breathing in time. “Tell me if I’m wrong, because I’m only using context clues here, and also the fact that I can feel your dick getting hard against my hip. Are you in this? Do you want to be in this? I know you said we should take our time, but I’ve seen you naked sixteen times since November, and I’m pretty sure that I don’t—”

Lovett scoots forward, bridging the gap, and bumping their mouths together. It’s an awkward slide, messy, and too hard, but Jon can’t help moaning, his hands squeezing tight on Lovett’s hips.

“This is an outrageous thing to do,” he whispers, not bothering to move back even an inch. “I just want you to acknowledge that.”

“So acknowledged,” Jon says, leaning in for another kiss. Against Lovett’s mouth, he whispers, “Move in with me when your lease is up next month, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Lovett groans, dropping his head down to Jon’s shoulder and banging a few times. “What are you doing to me, man? What did I ever do to deserve this?”

Jon kisses Lovett’s sweaty cheek, presses his lips to every bit of skin he can reach, and says, “Everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @sonni89 for screaming along with me and @gigantic for answering the call. Title stolen from a lyric in John Mayer’s “My Stupid Mouth”.


End file.
